


All You Never Say

by pohjanneito



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Fingering, Come Eating, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Underage Drinking, awkward dirty talk, ends post-Chapter 2, starts post-Chapter 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pohjanneito/pseuds/pohjanneito
Summary: Eddie’s face is a blur, like Richie’s watching him through a foggy window, but he feels the way Eddie’s muscles shift under his palms. He's always been so cute with his doe eyes and dimples, and Richie is fuckingsuffering, because he wants to touch every freckle on Eddie’s nose, wants to hold his hand under the blanket they share on movie nights, wants to give him his favorite issue of Batman, the expensive one that even Bill isn’t allowed to touch and— and he wants to lean in and find out if Eddie’s lips are as soft as they look.Because I love him.Or: 5 times Richie knew that he's in love with Eddie and 1 time he said it out loud.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 218





	All You Never Say

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little heads up that I use CNTW because this fandom has a history of going after fics in _a certain tag_ , but Richie and Eddie are 17 when they have sex. Big hugs to FancyKraken for the beta <3

**1990**

When the thought first pops into Richie’s head, he thinks it’s the August heatwave frying his brain. The muggy weather drives them to seek salvation at the quarry after all the ice pops in Stan’s freezer run out, and they take turns to dive into the murky green water.

Richie’s toes brush against mud and algae with every other kick as he watches Eddie float on his back a few feet away, bobbing like a small buoy. There’s a tan line around his neck, the skin on his chest several shades paler than the parts he’s left exposed to the sun since May. Richie’s hands twitch with a sudden desire to drum his palms against Eddie’s belly.

He swims a little closer and wishes he’d kept his glasses on when Eddie’s features begin to blur, but Eddie’s been snatching them off his nose and folding them into his fanny pack after Richie lost a pair at the bottom of the lake a few summers ago. He can still make out the dark slope of Eddie’s brows and the crescent of his lashes, can picture the way the corners of his mouth turn a little softer as the anxious energy eases its grip on him.

It’s been a hard year for all of them, the memories of their shared nightmare in the sewers under Derry lingering like a bad taste. Richie’s grades took a nosedive that threatened to send him to summer school with Derry’s burnouts, and no one says anything about Bill’s stutter being worse than ever or the way Eddie’s breaths turn wheezy when Mrs. K. sends him to the pharmacy.

He told Richie about the leper in the basement a few weeks after they made their blood oaths on the banks of the Kenduskeag, and Richie turned his own blood-chilling encounter with Paul Bunyan into a joke that neither of them laughed at.

He used to be able to distract Eddie with his mom jokes and well-cultivated impressions, and when those failed (which, statistically speaking, happened about 97% of the time) he could always pull Eddie into a headlock until he was too busy complaining about Richie’s BO or clammy hands to remember whatever had upset him. But Richie is aware that things between them are shifting, have been for some time now. Every touch seems to carry more weight as they get older and it’s hard to look at Eddie without wanting to hide the moment someone catches him at it. Like he’s making Eddie an accomplice in his dirty little secret just by looking.

But there are days when Richie doesn’t give a shit if someone sees, the same burst of defiance that drove him to the Kissing Bridge last summer igniting a stubborn fire in his heart. It makes him drag Eddie into a game of wrestling in the middle of Bill’s bedroom floor like he’s four instead of fourteen, and he ignores the way Stan and Ben exchange looks across the room as he buries his nose into Eddie's hair, just long enough to memorize the scent of his shampoo.

The ripples in the water push Eddie further away and the small distance between them seems to yawn as big as the Grand Canyon. Richie kicks up a cloud of mud as he splashes after him, smacking his palms against Eddie’s shoulders.

“Richie, _what the fuck_?”

Eddie’s face is a blur, like Richie’s watching him through a foggy window, but he feels the way Eddie’s muscles shift under his palms. He's always been so cute with his doe eyes and dimples, and Richie is fucking _suffering_ , because he wants to touch every freckle on Eddie’s nose, wants to hold his hand under the blanket they share on movie nights, wants to give him his favorite issue of Batman, the expensive one that even Bill isn’t allowed to touch and— and he wants to lean in and find out if Eddie’s lips are as soft as they look.

_Because I love him._

Richie shakes his head and lets out a nervous chuckle. He’s fourteen. How the fuck can he be in love when he’s not even old enough to drive!

Well, he does love things like Fruit Loops and Die Hard, but neither of those makes him feel the way Eddie does like his lungs are simultaneously too small and too big for his chest.

He knows his parents love each other, but they’re like a couple of old trees that have become entwined through mortgage, kids and the suburban dream, stuck together because it’d be too painful to separate.

The mirror on his sister's vanity is plastered with pictures of her latest Mr. Right, and Richie's heard her gush about how deeply in love she is whenever she’s on the phone with her friends, but he knows her mirror will be covered in someone else’s pictures by next semester.

He still feels bad about the time he called his sister a slut in front of the Losers, the look Bev gave him so scalding that Richie felt part of his soul leave his body. And so what if his sister switches boyfriends more frequently than Richie changes his socks. At least she hasn't been pining for her best friend since she was twelve.

It’s just a phase, the way he feels about Eddie. A weird detour on the bumpy road through puberty that he’ll stumble out of by the time summer comes to an end and they go back to school.

"Are you having a stroke or something?"

Eddie's laughter draws Richie back from the jumble of his own confused mind and he realizes that he's been staring at Eddie like a creep for the last twenty seconds.

"What? I got something on my face?" Eddie asks, his nose wrinkling as he purses his mouth.

Richie fumbles to shift gears in his head and takes a turn into more familiar territory. He shoots Eddie a playful grin and smacks his palm over his face. "You sure do."

“No! Richie, don’t you dare—” Eddie’s protests turn into watery gurgles as Richie dunks his head under the surface, laughing when he feels Eddie pull him down by his ankle a moment later.

  
  
  


* * *

**1991**

Turns out it’s not a phase. It becomes painfully obvious during spring break when Eddie elbows his way into the hammock and gives Richie the most uncomfortable boner of his life with the way he licks his thumb every time he turns a page in his comic, drawing Richie's eyes to the pink tip of his tongue.

So now he’s got a mental list of things strictly verboten when it comes to one Eddie Kaspbrak. Things like prolonged eye-contact, which Richie tries to limit to five looks per day, ten on the weekends. He stops dragging Eddie into playful scuffles and relinquishes his hammock rights because the damn thing is basically disaster central. And when they have movie nights at Bill's house, Richie makes sure to sit solo in the beanbag while the others squeeze onto Mrs. Denbrough’s plastic-covered floral sofa set.

He's never put too much effort into his education, but keeping his eyes away from Eddie during class forces him to actually pay attention to his teachers, so at least his grades are up again, though Richie can't really remember why they dropped in the first place.

The last couple of years are a little hazy, and the weird gaps in his memory make him wonder if all the hits he’s taken in his head during dodgeball might have some long-term effects. Josh Thompson and his goon friends from the football team throw the ball like human cannons, and knocking Richie’s glasses off his nose has been the highlight of their PE class since ‘88. 

When summer rolls around, Richie thinks he's found himself a distraction with the new job he scores at the mom-and-pop store next to his dad’s practice, but shelving canned food and sweeping the aisles bores him to death, and his inability to focus gets him fired in less than two weeks.

Stan is at his annual nature camp so Richie spends most of his days with Bill— and Eddie. Because what else is he gonna do in a town that people only pass through on their way to some place with an actual pulse. He manages to keep things with Eddie pretty civil, though it kind of stings when he notices that Eddie is starting to ignore him in equal measure. There are days when he doesn’t even show up at the clubhouse and Richie's thoughts turn ugly when he learns that Eddie is spending the day with Mike at the farm or building a stupid dam with Ben.

He tells himself it’s better this way. Better for Eddie when Richie isn’t giving the assholes in their bigoted town more reasons to yell ugly slurs at them. He’s starting to think they’ve found a new status quo, that Eddie is fine with the distance between them, but it all goes to shit at the annual Canal Days festival.

They all empty their pockets into Bill’s hands, trusting him with the cash they’ve managed to dig up under sofa cushions and unsuspecting piggy banks. Bill comes back with a long strip of tickets and hands them all an equal share of the bounty as they argue which ride to spend them on first.

Richie looks down when Eddie grabs his clammy hand and begins to drag him away from the rest of the group.

“Richie and I are riding the Ferris Wheel,” Eddie announces, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

Richie gapes at him, his fingers stiff in Eddie’s surprisingly strong grip. “Uh, we are?”

“Yeah. We are." Eddie’s tone leaves no room for argument, and Richie hears the others snicker and whisper like it's some great conspiracy.

There’s no line at the Ferris Wheel with the Fun House right next to it attracting people like bees to honey. Eddie rips off a few tickets from his own strip and hands their entrance fee to the bored-looking girl at the gate.

“Okay, get in,” she says, blowing out a pink bubble with her gum.

Eddie reaches into his fanny pack and pulls out a kleenex and a small bottle of Lysol. The girl gives him a funny look as she watches Eddie pump his hand sanitizer all over the plastic seat and the safety bar before giving them a thorough wipe.

The kids behind them snicker at Eddie’s cleaning routine and Richie’s about to flip them off when Eddie flicks his used tissue at the little assholes, not even close to hitting his target.

“Laugh it up, dickweeds. At least I’m not getting E. coli from a dirty carnival ride.”

Richie’s grinning into his fist as he takes a seat next to Eddie, folding his arms and legs into the pod. He's pretty sure he hasn't been this close to Eddie in months (98 days and 12 hours to be exact, not that he’s counting), and he does his best to ignore the goosebumps crawling up his spine as Eddie's left shoulder digs into his bicep.

The girl pulls the safety bar over their heads and presses her manicured hand on a large red button. "No spitting or your asses are banned."

The ride comes to life with a jolt and begins to haul them towards the night sky.

Richie distracts himself from Eddie’s close proximity with the view, trailing his eyes up and down the length of Canal Street that shines like a Christmas tree. The festive lights don’t make Derry any less of a shithole, but beyond the familiar streets and landmarks is a world of uncharted possibilities. Well, you’d probably have to drive past all the little pit stops between Bangor and Portland first, but once he made it across the state line, the world would be his oyster. 

“Fuck, I hate heights,” Eddie mutters under his breath, his knuckles white around the safety bar.

Richie spins in his seat, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead as he stares at Eddie in slack-jawed disbelief. “Then why the hell did you drag us to a Ferris Wheel?”

Eddie turns to look at him, his face scrunched up in that cute way that makes it look like he has a giant caterpillar above his eyes. “Because!” He blows out a frustrated breath and pinches the freckled bridge of his nose. “ _Because_ you’ve been avoiding me for months and I wanna know what the fuck is going on,” Eddie says. He raises his hand and chops the air in front of Richie’s nose when Richie opens his mouth to protest. “Don’t even try to act like I’m just making it all up in my head, asshole, because I know I’m not.”

Okay, so it looks like Richie hasn't been as subtle as he'd thought, and he wants to get the hell out of Dodge, but there’s nowhere to run, because Eddie, the wily little turd, has effectively trapped him in a rusty carnie ride two-hundred feet off the ground.

“You barely even looked at me in school last semester and you’re always on the other side of the room when we hang out at the clubhouse or watch movies at Bill’s.”

Eddie takes a wheezy breath, and Richie’s stomach clenches at the sound.

“And-and-and whenever I try to get you to hang out with me, you always bring someone else along, like a fucking chaperone or something." Eddie's voice keeps rising both in pitch and volume, and the couple above them gawks at them over the railing. "And if our shoulders brush at the arcade or-or I touch your fucking hand, you look at me like I’m a... a leper!" Eddie spits out the word like it's bile on his tongue and doesn’t notice the way his breaths are rattling, so worked up over his rant that he’s halfway into a full-blown asthma attack when his hand finally flies up to clutch at his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay.” Richie unzips Eddie’s fanny pack and pulls out his inhaler. He’s pretty sure Eddie doesn’t have actual asthma, but he does have _something_ , and the inhaler, placebo or not, seems to help. His hand shakes like a leaf as he presses the inhaler to Eddie’s lips. “Come on, Eds, take a deep breath for me.”

Eddie’s teeth clack against the nozzle as he seals his lips around it, his chest filling up like a bellow.

"Yeah, that's it."

Whatever Mr. Keene puts in the inhaler works its way into Eddie’s lungs and the strain of panic in Richie’s chest eases its grip as he holds Eddie's gaze and breathes with him, in and out, in and out. The ride is on its second rotation when he finally gets his breathing under control. He slumps against Richie’s side and rubs his cheek against the pineapple print on his shirt.

“Come on, Richie… What the hell is going on between us? Don’t you like me anymore?”

Eddie’s voice is so small and full of hurt that Richie is tempted to fling himself over the railing.

“Of course I like you, Eds.”

_That’s the whole problem._

“Then why are you acting like you don’t?” Eddie asks, balling the front of Richie’s shirt in his fist. 

“Because I really like you, okay?” The words are out before the filter between Richie’s brain and mouth can catch them. Shit.

They sit in stunned silence as the Ferris wheel rotates their pod towards the starry sky. Richie wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans and wonders if it’s too late to work it into a joke.

“Look, Eddie—”

“You like me?” There’s something vulnerable and almost hopeful in Eddie’s eyes, and Richie wonders if maybe, just maybe, Eddie has a secret of his own.

“Yeah. Like, a lot.” Richie looks down and brushes his fingers against Eddie's palm, right over the fading scar, a tentative touch he can play off as an accident if things go south.

Eddie jumps a little and his face freezes between expressions as he looks down at their hands. Richie's shoulders pull up as he begins to hesitate, but Eddie laces their fingers together before he can pull away, the corner of his mouth curling up.

When their hands are still together during the third rotation, Richie lifts his arm a little so Eddie can fit himself under it.

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I've been such an asshole…"

"Yeah, you have," Eddie agrees, but his scowl isn't as fierce as it was five minutes ago.

"I don't even know what to say. I’m really sorry, okay?”

Eddie looks up at him and it feels like he sees right through the walls Richie has built around himself. Every forced joke and touches stolen under the guise of teasing and roughhousing. He rests his head against Richie’s shoulder and strokes his thumb over the blue veins on the back of Richie's hand. “Okay, Rich.”

And that’s all they say about it. The fight is over and Richie gets rid of his stupid list, Eddie’s hand in his own the start of _something_.

  
  
  


* * *

**1992**

Richie is waist-deep into the big freezer in their basement, sifting through bags of frozen peas and ancient leftovers until his fingers find what they’re looking for.

“Score!” He blows the ice crystals off the wrapper and waves the rocket pop at Eddie. “There’s only one, though. Sorry, Eds. I know how you feel about sharing.”

Eddie doesn’t take his eyes off the TV, smashing his thumbs on the buttons of his controller. “Come on, come on! Why won’t you die? I've been hitting the weak spot for five minutes here! How many hit points does this fucker have?"

Richie snorts at Eddie’s Nintendo rage and slumps down on the other end of the lumpy sofa. “You might wanna work on those anger issues, Eds.”

“What anger issues?” Eddie snaps just as the TV begins to flash with a Game Over screen. He tosses the controller from his hands and clutches at his hair. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“I rest my case,” Richie grins. He gives his popsicle a loud suck, watching Eddie from the corner of his eye. “Wanna taste?” he offers, only because he knows that Eddie won’t even consider swapping spit with him.

Eddie's mouth pulls into a tight line the way it always does when his brain gears up for an inner monologue about germs and diseases.

“Okay.”

Richie's eyes almost bulge out of his head. “ _You do?_ ”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie holds out his hand, the expression on his face unreadable, but there’s a determined, almost stubborn groove between his eyebrows.

Richie clears his throat and offers the popsicle to Eddie, convinced that Eddie won’t actually go through with it, because they can’t even share a pop without an extra straw.

But he does, wrapping his lips around the cherry-red tip that was just in Richie’s own mouth.

“Holy shit.”

It’s just a fucking popsicle, but it’s the hottest thing Richie has seen in his sixteen years on the planet. Even the dirty magazines he found in a dumpster behind the adult video store on Jackson didn’t have anything that compares to the sight of Eddie with his mouth wrapped around Richie’s popsicle.

Eddie’s hand trembles a little when he hands it back to Richie. He flicks his tongue over his sugar-wet lips, and Richie’s brain comes to a complete halt. He crosses his legs and hopes that Eddie won’t look down, because there’s a pretty obvious _situation_ going on below his belt.

“Uh. How was it?” Richie croaks, nudging at his glasses.

Eddie shrugs, but Richie sees the way his chest heaves under his green polo, hears the soft wheeze in his breath. "Pretty good.”

Richie nods, his fingers twitching around the popsicle stick. “Cool.”

Eddie shifts a little closer, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. “Can I get another taste?”

Richie stares at Eddie with a slack-jawed expression, sticky popsicle juice running down his knuckles. “Um. Okay?” He offers the rocket pop back to Eddie, a little confused when Eddie ignores it and wraps his fingers around Richie’s wrist. They tremble against Richie’s pulse point as he leans a little closer, the worn springs of the sofa wailing under their combined weight.

The kiss Eddie gives him is chaste, just a little peck, but it resonates all over Richie’s body. He doesn't even think to close his eyes as he exhales a quiet whimper against Eddie's sugar-sweet lips.

It’s just a kiss, but it’s also not, because it’s _the kiss_ , the one he’s been dreaming about since Eddie first held his hand during a field trip in sixth grade. And Christ, he’s so in love. A total goner.

Eddie pulls back, his lips parted in a stunned little O as he blinks at Richie.

“Still— Still good?” Richie asks, flicking his tongue over his braces. There's a ringing in his left ear and the mounting panic in his chest makes his breath catch in his throat, because what if Eddie tells him no?

Eddie ducks his head and watches Richie through his lashes, his smile a little shy. “Even better.”

  
  
  


* * *

**1993**

Richie steers his car down a familiar dirt road past the old Merrill farm and parks it between two large hay bales, his and Eddie's special spot ever since he got his license. And who cares if it took two flunked driving tests to get there. He finally has his own (used) set of wheels to take Eddie out in style.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and fiddles with the radio until he finds the station that plays classic rock every Wednesday night. The host sounds like his brain has been fried since the 70s, but you can’t go wrong with Zeppelin and Kiss.

Eddie taps his finger against the buttons on his digital watch and unclasps his fanny pack. "Okay, we have forty-five minutes until my mom gets home from bingo.”

"Aw jeez, you're timing us again?" Richie groans, slumping against the wheel as dramatically as he can. "I swear, one of these days, you're gonna give me performance anxiety."

"I'd like to see the day your dick isn't hard by the time your foot comes off the gas pedal," Eddie snorts, and they both drop their gazes to the obvious tent Richie has pitched in his jeans.

"Well, looks like you're in luck, because today is not that day." Richie wags his brows and slaps his palms against his thighs. "Take a seat, Eduardo."

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he throws his leg over the gear stick, settling onto Richie's lap. The timer around his wrist seems to get him going, and he's got his hands on Richie's fly so fast that Richie gets a little whiplash.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, if I'd known you were that desperate for it, Kaspbrak, I'd have pulled over a lot sooner."

"Beep, beep, Richie,” Eddie huffs, and does his best to occupy Richie’s mouth with his tongue.

They’re getting pretty good at frenching, and even Richie’s braces don’t get in the way as much as they used to, though it’s still a challenge to keep up with Eddie’s pace since his mouth seems to operate on warp speed whether he’s kissing or talking. The minty taste lingering from the gum Eddie always chews during the ride has an almost Pavlovian effect on Richie's cock, and his hips rise up from the seat with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Eddie snickers in a piss-poor imitation of Richie’s voice. “If I’d known you were that desperate for it, Tozier...”

“I don’t sound like that, you little turd!”

“That was _way_ better than your shitty impr—”

Richie silences Eddie with another kiss and slips his hands under his t-shirt to thumb at his nipples, grinning at the way Eddie melts under his touch. They've been doing this all summer and Richie’s become an expert at finding all of his boyfriend’s sensitive spots, and holy shit, Eddie really is his _boyfriend_. Richie has permission to touch him and kiss him (unless he’s ordered onion rings at the diner) and hold his hand, and it feels like a half-forgotten wish, carved into the worn wood of the Kissing Bridge has finally come true. 

“Richie, come on,” Eddie pants into his mouth, thrusting against Richie’s hardon through the open fly of his jeans. "I don't wanna come in my pants like last time."

“Yeah, yeah, just—just give me a sec, Eds.” Richie reaches out to open the glove compartment and pulls out a bottle of K-Y Jelly. He’s kept it there ever since he made the mistake of using spit as lube and Eddie made him drive him straight home with a major case of blue balls.

There’s no easy way to undress in a car that was clearly designed for someone whose limbs hadn’t stretched almost ten inches over the summer, but they manage to lose their shirts and shimmy down their jeans without knocking each other’s teeth in. Richie gives the bottle of lube an enthusiastic squeeze, flinching as the cool liquid spills down their dicks like too-runny icing.

“Ugh, you’re so messy.”

Richie pulls Eddie into a kiss before he can get too distracted by the excess lube dripping down the inside of their thighs. He wraps his fingers around their cocks and gives Eddie’s bottom lip a playful nip as he sets them a nice pace.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” Eddie digs his neatly trimmed nails into Richie’s shoulders and rolls his hips up, messing up the rhythm in the best way possible.

And Richie loves how Eddie gets in these moments, greedy and a little manic, whining into their kiss like he can’t get enough, like he actually _wants_ Richie despite of his dumb braces and even dumber jokes.

Richie walks his fingers down Eddie’s spine, pausing between the small dimples above his tailbone. He’s well aware of Eddie's hang-ups, and he doesn’t mind taking things slow, but it doesn’t hurt to test the waters every once in a while.

He skirts two fingers between Eddie's cheeks and pulls back from the kiss to watch Eddie’s reaction.

“Umh,” Eddie hums, biting on his kiss-swollen lips. “Do you wanna, you know…”

“Finger you?” Richie feels Eddie’s cock twitch at the question and his mouth pulls into a knowing smile. “I take that’s a yes?”

Eddie’s face is shrouded in shadows, but the way he pulls his shoulders to his ears tells Richie he’s blushing. “I—I guess we could give it a try?”

“Yeah?” Richie pulls his hand back and squirts a dollop of lube over his fingers. He’s made an effort to keep his hands from wandering too much whenever they makeout, and handjobs are totally awesome, but the thought of fucking Eddie with his fingers has been in his spank bank all summer.

“Let me know if it hurts and I’ll stop, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie nods, the line of his shoulders a little tense as Richie slips his fingers between his cheeks.

The pothead on the radio takes a call between songs, but Richie barely hears him, his ears thundering with the sound of his own heart as he rubs at Eddie’s hole. “You’re so soft,” he gasps, and his cock strains against his palm as he feels his finger slip inside.

Eddie cants his hips, pressing his forehead against Richie’s. His hole opens up wider, _wider_ until Richie is two knuckles deep. “How do I feel?”

Richie shakes his head, unable to think of an apt comparison. “You’re—you’re perfect, Eds,” he says, a little lamely, because there’s nothing like the warm, soft clutch of this most intimate part of Eddie’s body. He pulls out and circles Eddie’s hole, dipping inside every once in a while, deeper and deeper until Eddie is riding two of his fingers, his face buried in the crook of Richie’s neck.

“Am I doing it right? Is it good?”

“Uh-huh, so good, Richie,” Eddie pants, clutching at the worn upholstery on the seat as he fucks himself on Richie’s fingers.

Richie knows Eddie doesn't touch himself at home, too afraid of Mrs. K walking in on him. They do make out in the clubhouse whenever they have the place to themselves, and on the rec room couch, and there was also that one, exhilarating time in the bathrooms at the YMCA while they waited for Ben and Bill to finish their judo class, but Richie has never seen Eddie let go like this. He’s so wet, some of the lube Richie’s worked into him spilling out as he grinds down on Richie’s fingers.

“Fuck, Rich, I’m gonna co _-ah-_ come,” Eddie whines.

“Yeah, yeah, do it,” Richie nods, ignoring the ache in his wrist as Eddie rides his fingers.

Eddie’s knees dig into Richie’s thighs and he shakes like a little leaf, the cloudy mix of his jizz and lube splattering all over Richie’s chest and belly.

“Now who's messy?” Richie snorts, working his fingers out of Eddie’s tender hole.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Richie,” Eddie pants.

Richie’s mouth curls up in a playful smile. “Oh yeah?” He bites his lip, a little hesitant. “Maybe I should make you clean it up?”

Eddie blinks at Richie with hazy eyes, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “Um?”

“Come on, Eds, clean your mess,” Richie grins, dragging his fingers through the spatters of come on his belly.

Eddie goes a little cross-eyed as he stares at the wad of come on Richie’s fingers. "It's gross…"

"No, it's not,” Richie argues, his eyes imploring behind his overgrown fringe. He presses his fingers against Eddie’s bottom lip, his gut tight with a hot curl of anticipation. "Come on, just a taste, for me? You can have gum after."

Eddie has blown him a couple of times in the rec room while Went and Maggie watch their game shows upstairs. Well, not really, but even the little kitten licks he gives to Richie’s dick make him blow his load faster than any handjob.

Eddie's nose twitches, but his glare lacks its usual fire as he parts his lips, the pink tip of his tongue poking out.

“Y-yeah," Richie nods, sounding a little winded as he slides his fingers between Eddie's lips. “Clean your mess, baby.” Richie has been spewing filth since fifth grade, but the line makes him feel like he’s in a bad porno. He’s about to apologize for the cringe, but the moan that slips from Eddie's mouth gives him pause.

“Am I dirty?” Eddie asks around Richie’s fingers, his eyes half-lidded as he laps at the salty mess.

The rational part of Richie’s mind tells him he’d be crazy to call a germaphobe like Eddie dirty, but the horny part, which is currently about 99% of his brain capacity drives him to nod his head and push his fingers a little deeper.

“Yeah, so dirty,” Richie pants, rubbing his fingers all over Eddie's tongue. He can tell Eddie is into it and his cock leaks against his knuckles, the filter between his brain and mouth vanishing as he jerks himself off. “A dirty—a dirty s-slut.”

Richie blushes at the word, but Eddie moans and takes Richie’s fingers even deeper, the muscles in his throat tensing as he swallows around them. And that's it, Richie's done. His hips jerk up from the seat, the way Eddie nips at his fingers tipping him over the edge, and he shoots into his fist.

They both jump when Eddie’s elbow hits the horn on the wheel and the loud honk almost sends Richie into cardiac arrest.

“Jesus!”

“Holy fuck!”

Eddie leans away from the wheel, giggling into Richie’s collar bones as they recover from the sudden scare. 

Richie pushes his damp curls off his face and sets his glasses straight, something like embarrassment pushing through the lingering fog of arousal. “Uh. I hope that wasn’t too weird? You know. The stuff I said.”

Eddie chews on his bottom lip and watches Richie through his lashes. “It wasn’t weird. I think I kinda liked it...”

“Oh yeah?” Richie asks, shooting Eddie a lecherous grin.

Eddie rolls his eyes and bumps his knuckles against Richie’s arm. "Never mind, I take it back." He grabs his fanny pack and digs through an assorted collection of plasters, vitamins and wound cleansers that burn like a motherfucker on a freshly scraped knee.

“That thing is like a mobile pharmacy,” Richie snorts.

Eddie pulls out a fresh packet of baby wipes and goes through his usual post-makeout cleaning routine, dabbing the moist tissue over the mess on Richie’s belly. The interior of the car feels like a Turkish bath and Richie rolls the window down, the nighttime buzz of cicadas mixing with the guitar riffs from the radio.

“How much time do we have before I have to return you to your tower? Five minutes?”

Eddie studies his watch and turns off the alarm. “More like thirty-five,” he snorts.

“Oh wow.” Richie scratches his neck, a little embarrassed, but ten minutes is still longer than most of his jerk off sessions.

They settle into the backseat, Richie’s long legs poking through the space between the front seats, Eddie’s compact body pressed against his side. The reception on the radio is a little shaky and the song keeps fading in and out of focus, but Richie doesn’t really care, too comfortable to get up and switch to a cassette tape.

These are his favorite moments when he gets to have Eddie all to himself and pretend the world outside his car doesn’t even exist. That there's no Derry, no Sonia and no graffitied slurs on bathroom walls.

“Fuck, I love this,” Eddie sighs, nuzzling his nose into the dip under Richie’s Adam’s Apple.

_I love_ you, Richie thinks and brushes his thumb over Eddie's pointed chin.

“I wish we didn’t have to go back at all,” Eddie continues. He swirls his finger through the condensation in the window and draws the wet tip down the length of Richie's nose. “I just wanna keep driving until we forget this shithole of a town even exists.”

Richie tilts his head and drops a kiss into Eddie’s damp hairline. “Me, too, Eds.”

  
  
  


* * *

**1994**

The party at Gretta Keene’s house is in full swing when they arrive at the scene, and Richie’s surprised that any of them were even invited. It’s not like Gretta and her friends were ever super accepting of their little Losers Club.

The party is meant to be like a big send-off for the class of '94 as they all prepare to scatter into the world. Most of the Losers, including Eddie, are staying on the East Coast, but Richie’s flinging himself all the way to sunny California with absolutely zero idea what he’s gonna do with his life. He’s kind of hoping for a career in stand-up or in the entertainment business, and if that makes him a giant cliche, then so be it.

“Did we really have to come?” Eddie grumbles as he follows Richie into the crowded living room. He takes one whiff of the smoky air and buries his face in the crook of his elbow. “Oh my god, I can _taste_ the air in this room. I swear to God, we’re all gonna have lung cancer by the end of the night.”

“Come on, Eddie, it’s our last night together. Let’s try to have f-f-ffun,” Bill says, patting Eddie on the shoulder, ever the optimist.

It’s not Eddie’s first party, but Richie knows he doesn’t exactly enjoy them. He makes a beeline to the open bar in the kitchen, hoping that a couple of drinks will help Eddie to loosen up.

“What will it be tonight, Mr. Kasbrak?” Richie asks in his best Lloyd the Bartender impression, motioning his hand at the row of bottles on the kitchen island.

Eddie eyes the mess of spilt drinks and party snacks that litter the floors, doing his best to breathe as little of the nicotine-laced air as possible. “I don’t know, just give me something that doesn’t taste like lighter fluid,” he grumbles.

Richie grabs a clean solo cup and rubs his chin as he considers his options. His own drinking preferences are limited to cheap beer and the foul-tasting homebrew Mike sometimes steals from his Grandpa. He decides to go with colors, mixing Eddie a cupful of the brightest, most candy-colored swill he can create.

“Here you go, one Richie Tozier Special.”

Eddie gives the drink a suspicious sniff, scowling at Richie over the rim. He takes a careful sip and spits it right back, rushing to dump the drink into the sink. “Jesus Christ, I think my taste buds are melting off!”

"I guess I can kiss goodbye to my bartending dreams," Richie sighs.

"Whatever."

Richie deflates at the word. "Aww, come on, Eds, don't be like that."

“Like what?” Eddie snaps.

He’s been sulking all summer, and Richie can't really blame him, because he knows exactly how Eddie feels, he's just better at burying his feelings under six feet of repression and false smiles. They both know the party is just a giant distraction from the impending goodbyes and final looks through the rearview mirror that looms over them like some faceless horror in a Victorian ghost novel.

Eddie slams his cup on the table and ignores the pleading puppy eyes Richie aims at him from the shadow of his shaggy fringe. "I'm gonna go find Bill and the others."

Fuck. Maybe he shouldn't have dragged Eddie to the party, because it's starting to look like Richie is getting closer and closer to the dog house. He thinks about taking Eddie home and spending their final night together in his childhood bedroom, half of his things already packed for California or in donation boxes his mom is gonna give to charity as soon as Richie is out of the house.

But he can't do it. Can't have Eddie's sad doe eyes watching him in the dark when they have no idea when they'll see each other again.

Richie tries to swallow, but it’s like there's a peach pit stuck in his throat. He grabs a bottle of whatever is closest to his hand and pours it into the cup Eddie left behind. The drink burns all the way in his sinuses, but he downs it in one go and refills his cup, wandering into the drunken crowd of people he can’t wait to forget.

The night wears on and the drinks keep multiplying. Five, six, seven, eight? No, he's pretty sure that was drink number nine. By the time he's into double digits, Richie is shuffling around Gretta’s ridiculously large house like a zombie. He stumbles up the stairs in his search of Eddie and his vision is so blurred that he wonders if he’s lost his glasses, but they’re still on his nose when he smacks his palm against it.

The music downstairs makes the family portraits on the walls shake and the floor is so sticky from spilled drinks that the soles of Richie’s sneakers get stuck on the laminate. His mouth pulls into a happy smile as he squints at a familiar-looking mop of dark hair in the crowd in front of him

“Eddie! I fffounthyou,” Richie slurs, reaching out to pat Eddie’s head.

“What the fuck, man?”

Okay. It’s definitely not Eddie, because there’s no way his 5'7" boyfriend could lift him against the wall by his collar.

“Don’t fucking touch my hair, freak.”

The guy lets go of him and Richie continues his search through the crowded house. He thinks he blacks out for a bit, because the next thing he knows he’s lying in a puddle of his own vomit on Gretta Keene’s bathroom floor, hugging a lavender bathrobe against his chest.

He tries to sit up, but his motoric functions seem somewhat lacking at the moment. He’s vaguely aware of the door behind his back opening and closing with a loud slam, and then someone’s grabbing him by his shoulders. He’s yanked up so fast that the room around him looks like a nauseating kaleidoscope and he blinks at a familiar slant of thick eyebrows that alternate between angry and worried.

Richie can tell Eddie is speaking to him, but the words seem to reach his brain only in small increments.

“Richie, what the fuck… been looking... over an hour… puke all over yourself?”

Eddie drags him away from the pool of vomit and props Richie’s back against the edge of the bathtub. Richie tries to blink his vision into focus, but he sees two, sometimes three Eddies dart around the small bathroom as he grabs a clean washcloth and holds it under the tap.

Richie gives Eddie a loopy smile when he presses the wet cloth against his cheek. Eddie’s touch is gentle, but the line of his brows is still undoubtedly angry.

“What the hell is wrong with you, dipshit? Why would you drink so much that you pass out in a pool of your own vomit?” Eddie snaps his fingers in front of Richie's nose. "Hey, hey, look at me, Richie. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Richie ignores the question and closes his left eye to try and focus his gaze. “Eddie, I’m… I've wanted to… I have to tell you...” Richie slurs, not sure he’s even producing actual words or if he’s just mumbling random gibberish at Eddie. His tongue feels like it’s made of lead and the connection between his brain and limbs is still offline, but he has to get it out now before it's too late.

Three little words.

“It’s okay, Rich, I’m gonna take care of you,” Eddie speaks, patting at Richie’s cheek. “Just try to stay awake, okay?”

Richie keeps blinking at Eddie, aware that the air in the bathroom smells like a dumpster. He’s pretty sure Eddie has never been so close to a pool of someone else’s vomit, but he doesn't pay it any attention as he continues to clean Richie’s face.

Richie opens his mouth again, squeezing his eyes shut as he concentrates on forming words. “Eddie— I wanted—to tell you that I—that I...”

His mouth is still moving, forming words, but he has no idea what he's saying, and the last thing he sees before he blacks out is Eddie’s stunned face, his memories of their final night in Derry lost forever in alcohol-induced oblivion.

  
  
  


* * *

**2016**

Richie is dozing off in the most uncomfortable chair in the world when a soft rustle of starchy sheets pulls him awake. His eyes zero in on the hospital bed and he jolts up when he sees Eddie's eyes flutter open.

Richie is at his bedside before Eddie is even fully conscious, settling a gentle hand over his knuckles, careful not to touch the IV drip or any other tube that's sticking out of him.

"Hey, there he is," Richie says in a soft whisper. "My Eddie Spaghetti."

Eddie blinks at him, his brows pinching together as his gaze slowly becomes more focused.

"Richie?"

"The one and only Trashmouth Tozier, at your service," Richie smiles.

Eddie pries his tongue off the roof of his mouth and licks his chapped lips. He looks almost uncharacteristically pale under the harsh fluorescent lamp above his bed, the lines twenty-seven years of life have etched into his face on full display.

Richie is pretty sure Eddie has never looked more beautiful, because he's fucking _alive_.

"Am I in-"

"You're in a hospital in Portland," Richie tells him, pressing a gentle hand on Eddie's shoulder when he tries to take a look at the damage on his chest. "They had to transfer you here because the hospital in Derry didn't have the right stuff to fix you."

Eddie has more questions, but they're interrupted by a young nurse before he can ask them. She shoos Richie out of the room while she examines Eddie, and he spends the next fifteen minutes pacing a circle in front of a vending machine and downing a cup of too-hot coffee.

"Hey, did we- did we get It?" Eddie asks the moment Richie is back at his bedside, his eyes frantic. "Did we get the fucking clown, Richie?"

"Yeah, man, we got that fucker for good, thanks to you."

Eddie blows out a shaky breath through his nose, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Richie thinks Eddie is just resting his eyes, and he starts to crack a joke about the way Pennywise had turned into a pancake. It's not until the silence at the punchline that he realizes that Eddie has fallen back to sleep.

He huffs a quiet laugh and traces his fingers along the lines on his forehead. "Yeah, you get your beauty sleep, Eds. I'm not going anywhere."

Richie takes Eddie’s hand in his own and marvels at the way they fit together, still, almost three decades later.

They’re all recovering their memories at a faster pace now that the clown is gone. There are still gaping holes in Richie’s mind, missing reels in a film that is his childhood, but he remembers Eddie, remembers _them, together_.

“I can’t believe I ever forgot you,” Richie whispers, stroking his thumb over Eddie’s scraped knuckles.

His phone goes off in the pocket of his jeans, and he swipes his thumb over the green button when he sees it's not his manager.

Beverly bursts into tears when Richie tells her Eddie finally woke up, and he can hear her share the news to Ben who rushes out of the room to spread the word. Bev asks Richie to come and grab a shower and some sleep, and he agrees to go, the endless tirade of _he's gonna die you're gonna lose him_ at the back of his mind fading now that he's seen Eddie awake with his own two eyes.

Richie feels a little less like a swamp monster when he gets back to the hospital later in the afternoon and he finds Eddie where he left him, wrapped in gauze and full of tubes, but this time, he’s awake.

Richie rushes to his bedside like he’s missed his non-existent baby’s first steps. “Shit, I thought I'd be back before you woke up. I had to grab a shower and- Hey are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Rich,” Eddie chuckles, looking a little bewildered. “Really, I’m fine.” He narrows his eyes, his gaze shifting to the collection of coffee cups and sandwich wrappers that litter the table next to Richie’s chair. “Wait. Have you been coming here every day?”

Richie ducks his head and adjusts his glasses. “Uh. Pretty much, though Nurse Ratched makes sure my ass is out after nine-thirty.”

“What the fuck, Rich?” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, but his eyes crinkle as he rolls them fondly, like the disapproval is just for show. And Richie is so familiar with that expression, sees right through it, because Eddie would make it all the time when they were kids. Huff and puff and pretend to be upset when Richie riled him up, but preening on the inside.

They watch each other, the silence between them comfortable, and Eddie’s cheek dimples as he moves his hand towards Richie, palm up in an invitation. Richie scoots closer and laces their fingers together.

“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie says, his voice a little strained. “You didn’t have to stay, not for me. I know you have a life in LA.”

“I really did, Eds, especially for you.” Richie squeezes Eddie’s hand and feels his vision go a little blurry.

Eddie squints at him and lifts his head from the pillow. “Wait, Richie, are you _crying_?”

Richie sniffles and gives Eddie a sheepish smile. “No?”

“Yeah, you are,” Eddie laughs, but not unkindly.

Richie takes his glasses off and dries his eyes on the cuff of his shirt, sucks in a stuttery breath through his teeth. "I thought I fucking lost you, man, again." Richie presses his forehead against Eddie's hip and fails to swallow the small whimper that slips out when he feels Eddie's fingers in his hair.

"I'm still here, Rich, still breathing. Though I gotta tell you, it hurts like a son of a bitch, because, you know, I was skewered by an interdimensional spider clown." Eddie's laughter is laced with a pained cough, and Richie hurries to pour him some water from the pitcher on the table. Eddie takes a sip through a straw, his eyes still on Richie. "Hey, what- what did you mean when you said 'again'?"

Richie's brow furrows and he shrugs, not really following.

"When you said you thought you lost me _again_ ," Eddie clarifies.

Richie clears his throat and they both look down at his right leg as it begins to bounce, the heel of his boot tapping against the linoleum floor. "How much do you remember? You know, from before?"

Eddie's brows knit together and he stares at the abstract lines in the painting on the opposite wall, his eyes a little glassy.

"There are still some gaps, and even the days we spent in Derry after our reunion are kinda hazy. But I remembered you and your big mouth before I was even past the city limits."

"Yeah?" Richie's eyes brighten and he feels a rush of warmth creeping up his neck.

Eddie nods, fiddling with the baby blue hospital quilt right where his fanny pack used to hang when they were kids. "I was driving past the fields where old man Merrill used to grow barley or something, and it just hit me, this vision of your gangly arms and dumb smile and the way your hair always looked like it had something nesting in it. And those shirts you used to wear! Man, they were like a full-blown assault to the senses," Eddie laughs.

Richie grins and tugs on the lapels of the bright yellow button-up he got for himself in a Walmart between Derry and Portland.

"Yeah, I guess some things never change," Eddie snorts, the gauze on his face shifting with his smile.

"No they don't," Richie says softly.

_Because I still love you._

Eddie watches him like he can see right into Richie's pining little heart.

Richie feels the familiar urge to flee, and he's not trapped in a Ferris wheel, so he could do it, could walk out of the room, go back to LA, back to pretending.

Eddie is still watching him and Richie feels pinned down by the intensity of his gaze, knows that Eddie sees right through him, because he always did.

"Eddie, I-" Richie swallows when he feels Eddie brush his fingers over his sweaty palm, right over the spot where the scar from their promise used to be. And it's like someone's removed the filter between his brain and mouth as more than twenty years worth of repressed feelings spill out in a jumble of words. "I know this is, like, the worst possible time to say this, because you were almost killed less than a week ago, and we're all still unpacking the trauma of getting into a deathmatch with an evil space clown."

"And I know you're married and you and the missus have a whole life in the Big Apple, and believe me, I'm happy for you, Eds, I really am. But I almost lost you and if I don't say this now, I know I never will, because I was never as brave as you."

Richie feels a little light headed as he sucks in a deep breath, his hand shaking against Eddie's palm.

"I fucking love you, okay?"

And that's it. He's finally said it. The cat's out of the bag - twenty-seven years too late.

"I know, Rich." Eddie bites his lip, the stark lines of his face softening as he watches Richie through his lashes. "I love you too."

Richie blinks and takes a moment to process Eddie's words. He glances at the IV drip and decides that Eddie must be high on whatever drugs they're pumping into him, because he's way too chill about Richie's big gay confession.

"No, Eddie, I mean I'm _in love_ with you," Richie clarifies, studying Eddie's face to see if he gets the difference. "Like, in a really gay way, have been since I was fourteen."

Eddie rolls his eyes at him and reaches out to run his fingers through the greying strands of hair at Richie's temple.

"Richie, I _know_."

Richie gapes at Eddie, his jaw slack. "You do?"

Eddie sets Richie's glasses straight on his nose and continues to run his fingers through his hair. "You told me on our last night in Derry."

That particular night is one of the reels Richie is still missing from his memories.

"You got really drunk that night," Eddie continues, the line of his brows a little scolding. "We were both miserable because you were leaving Derry, and I think you went a little overboard at Gretta Keene's open bar."

Richie's been going a little overboard with a lot of shit since he left Derry, and it doesn't surprise him that his scrawny ass chose to drink his worries away.

"But you did say it, the big L word," Eddie smiles, resting his palm against Richie's stubbled cheek. "Right before you passed out in my lap."

Richie scratches his neck and gives Eddie a sheepish smile. "Yeah, I was a lightweight back then."

Eddie glances at his phone next to the water pitcher. The corners of his mouth pull down and there's suddenly something uncertain in his expression.

"I listened to some of the voice messages from Myra when you were back at the hotel."

Richie's stomach plummets, the reminder of Eddie's marriage like a cold, hard dose of reality straight down his throat.

"Yeah?" Richie does his best to hide the fact that he kinda wants to cry as he prepares himself to lose Eddie. Again.

"She wants a divorce."

Richie jolts so hard in his chair that the legs scrape against the linoleum. It takes his brain a moment to connect with his mouth again.

"That sucks. I mean, wow. I'm sorry, man."

Eddie snorts. "Bullshit."

And yeah, Richie's totally not sorry, but still, what the hell? 

"Turns out it's kinda shitty to run off without an explanation and then disappear from the grid for ten whole days." There's a self-deprecating edge in Eddie's tone, but Richie knows this is a Serious conversation with a capital S.

"I mean, you did spend most of that time unconscious, because you had a gaping hole in your chest," Richie points out. "That's gotta count as a mitigating circumstance or something."

Eddie shakes his head, and Richie notices the way his eyes are starting to droop again. "It's not just my impromptu trip to a childhood home town that I never even mentioned to her. We… We haven't been that great for a while." Eddie frowns and shakes his head again like he's disagreeing with himself. "We've _never_ been great."

"I'm sorry." Richie cringes at how lame he sounds, parroting the same words at Eddie, but he really is sorry to know that Eddie has been stuck in an unhappy marriage all these years.

Eddie's eyes are beginning to slip closed and they both glance up at his IV drip.

"They're really giving you the good stuff, huh?" Richie grins, stroking his knuckles over Eddie's jawline.

"Hell yeah," Eddie sighs, his eyes finally falling shut.

Richie continues to stroke his hair, thinking Eddie is well on his way to meet the Sandman when he feels Eddie shift and lean into his touch.

"Hey, Rich?"

"Yeah, Eds?"

"You'll still be here when I wake up, won't you?" Eddie asks, voice soft with sleep.

Richie leans closer, careful not to put any pressure on Eddie's chest, pretty sure he's already asleep when he presses a kiss between his brows.

"Yeah, Eddie, I'll be here."

_For the rest of your life if you'll have me._

  
  



End file.
